Capture These Moments
by Soul Jelly
Summary: A collection of miscellaneous stories and ficlets set to various prompts. Latest: William, 'Summer'. "His parents are hoping that France will have him stagnate into something mellower, air out the mischief that rainy days in England on rough London streets have imbued in him."
1. YumiSissi, Superstitions

**Superstitions**  
_Yumi, Sissi.  
(Yumi POV.)_

_(as prompted by lemonsdarling)_

* * *

"I didn't see the show," is the first thing I tell her, and immediately she looks disappointed.

Sissi stands at the edge of the stage, out of costume now but with the make-up and styled hair still intact, and she stares down at me with a bewildered sort of incredulity, squinting slightly through the harsh lights.

"Yumi?" she asks. "Yumi Ishiyama?"

I smile as she says my name; with her hands on her hips and her confident stance, she's just how I remember her.

"Hey, Sissi," I reply, more casually than I feel. I'm rooted to the floor amongst the seats in the front row and as I tilt my head back to meet her gaze, I wonder what I'm really doing here.

I was just stopping by, really. Took a couple of buses and ended up two towns over. Trying to look like I knew where I was going as I walked to clear my head, and avoiding the random yells of male passers-by, the kind who amuse themselves by heckling women walking the streets alone. I saw the sign in a small, shabby theatre window, did a double-take when I saw her face on the programme plastered to the glass, the typeface beneath spelling out her name in small unobtrusive print.

_Sissi Delmas._

It was getting cold out, it hadn't been a great night on the whole. I needed… something, I couldn't even tell myself what. And she was there, apparently.

So, I went in.

The woman at the reception desk informed me brusquely that the show had already started, and I was going nowhere without a pre-bought ticket for the 7:30 showing, which I clearly didn't have.

"But I _know_ Sissi Delmas," I said, jabbing my finger at the programme, another copy of which was pinned up beside the desk next to an advertisement for line-dancing classes. "I went to school with her."

"Everyone knows Sissi Delmas," the woman remarked dryly. I responded with a shrug, too tired to argue after all that has happened already this evening, and proceeded to linger until the performance ended.

And here I am, the swarms of spectators having filed out of the crowded theatre in their two or three hundreds (amazing how many people you can fit into one of these venues), and the other actors disappearing somewhere, snatches of their cheerful goodbyes with Sissi drifting back through the wings as I approach. I wonder if she's been doing this long; if it's her own personal tradition to loiter on stage basking in the quiet aftermath of a performance.

The lights flicker again, accompanied by a soft, lethargic _bzz._

"What are you doing here?" Sissi asks, snapping me out of my reverie.

"I saw you were performing and I thought I'd stop by?" I offer.

Sissi's face, surprisingly, breaks into a smile. "Fair enough."

I suppose I'm thinking that I should have been surprised at the lack of hostility, but we hadn't exactly left Kadic on bad terms, not after the whole Lyoko thing was over with. We were even friends, for a while. Funny how easy it is though, to forget those times; like they are forever dulled in the shadow of what came before.

"Forget about the lights," she says. "They've been acting up for a while now. We were worried they were going to cut out during the performance but we made it through. They're sending someone over later tonight, I think."

I nod, turning my head to take in the room around me. The failing lights are only a start; the whole place appears much grander than it is, from the crimson, shabby curtains to the scuffed carpeted floor. As I turn back to Sissi, it strikes me that life is largely about compromise.

"So… theatre, huh?" I ask, eager to shake the thought. That, and I'm genuinely curious. I guess I always thought… no, actually, I never really gave much thought to what Sissi might be doing when school was over. I didn't give much thought to my own future plans either, mind; I was busy secretly writing goodbye notes to my parents and Hiroki just in case I died whilst saving the world.

So Sissi Delmas, in theatre. Quite a surprise really.

"Yeah," she replies. "I wasn't great at acting in Kadic – remember the Romeo and Juliet thing? - and of course, you guys made sure I knew it." I flinch, but she continues without a hint of bitterness. "So I took some lessons, got better, went to some auditions. And here I am. It's no West End, but it pays the bills."

She grins, and it strikes me that she's really happy here. I realise she is tired, though, beneath the make-up.

_Compromise._

"Sorry," I blurt out. "About the whole… the teasing thing." Seeing her here so self-assured makes me feel guilty, and I'm not sure why.

Sissi laughs. "If anything, I should be thanking you. You guys were the only ones who'd tell me straight up how bad I was."

"We were hardly diplomatic about it."

"Is _anyone_ diplomatic when they're thirteen?"

A grin tugs reluctantly at my lips. "I guess not," I concede.

"Well there you are. None of us were really great, were we? Except…" she cuts herself off and turns as though to check on a fraying strand of curtain, but I swear she's blushing.

"Except Ulrich, right. Well believe it or not, he has his flaws too."

Sissi pauses. It's a deliberate, considered pause; I can almost see the cogs turning as she mentally weighs up her response, and when it finally does it come it's not quite what I expected.

"What about you?" she says.

For the second time that evening, I raise a questioning eyebrow, adding a slightly irritated "what about me?" when she doesn't respond.

"I mean… what about your flaws."

"What about them?" I feel my blush darkening; my end of the conversation is beginning to sound stupid.

"No, I mean, you had them right?"

I laugh derisively, the mocking tone directed only at myself. "Of course."

"But you were always so…" Sissi takes a deep breath. The words tail off, and I don't know how to prompt her to continue, so I say nothing.

"You always seemed to have everything figured out, is all."

I smile properly then, my first real smile since I got here, and I shake my head slowly.

"I didn't," I promise her. "Really Sissi, I didn't."

There's a pause that stretches on a tad too long, until Sissi breaks the silence once more, this time with an abrupt change of subject. Full-circle, we've come.

"How is Ulrich, anyway?"

I don't – can't – answer, but I'm sure the story must write itself minutely in the crease of my brows and the light, unconscious curling of my hands into fists. I relax again almost immediately, swallowing the hurt down, but Sissi sees, and she smiles. It's not an unkind smile, more of a knowing one. I suppose this was going to come up sooner or later.

She leans forwards, hands on hips once more. "Trouble in paradise?"

"I'd rather not talk about it Sissi, if you don't mind."

Her lips twitch at the old joke, but she shrugs non-committally. I notice her slender hands writhing around themselves as they twist compulsively at the hems of her shirt sleeves. I don't want to meet her eyes either, so I walk up the short flight of steps to the stage and sit upon the edge, turning my head just slightly so I can see her out of the corner of my eye.

She looks pensive as she asks, "Does Ulrich ever think about me?"

"How should I know?"

Sissi leans against the piano, long legs crossed at the ankles. Her expression changes and a smirk rests faintly on her lips; I get the idea there's another inside joke that's amusing her, one that I'm not privy to this time.

"Do you?" she asks.

I don't know how to answer this (I've thought about her so much lately I'd be embarrassed to admit it) so instead I turn fully and examine her closely, take in the languid form leaning on the piano, the gently curled hair and smoky eyes, the complete at-easeness that is Sissi is in this empty, echoing theatre. And still, with the hint of a smirk on her lips.

It strikes me that I know that look, because it's one I've seen many times before; on my own face, in fact. On Ulrich's and Odd's and Jérémie's and Aelita's, and later William's. That look of smug derision, that I-know-something-you-don't.

I feel distinctly uncomfortable.

My arms move to cross over my chest; I'm afraid, suddenly, of feeling exposed, and the sensation continues as Sissi pushes herself lightly away from the piano and comes to sit beside me on the edge of the stage, both our legs dangling over the ledge. Hers are relaxed and swaying gently, mine pressed firmly against the wooden boards with my knees locked firmly together.

"So, things are bad," she says quietly, after a while.

"We're… yeah."

We share a long look. It should be something meaningful, a profound connection between two women who have loved the same man (been spurned by the same man, perhaps, but it's not like that. Ulrich and I are… well, it will work out), but it's not really. The longer I sit here, the more I get the idea that this has very little to do with Ulrich at all.

I'm drowning, I think. I'm out of my depth, unsure why.

The room is too bright, the light wavering and unsteady as the fuses act up, and stifling warm. The air smells like leather and pine. I stare at our arms, almost touching; the scarlet thread of Sissi's shirt has unravelled at the sleeve, and as she nudges closer it loops itself in a thin strand against the black stretch fabric of my own sweater. She follows my gaze to the minute curl of red on black, the softest of threads connecting us both.

I reach out slowly and pluck the thread between my fingers, releasing it to drift back into anonymity of Sissi's shirt. She's breathing quietly. I watch the rise and fall of her chest. The restless fingers now sit still in her lap; I wonder if this is the acting coming into play, or whether the confidence was the façade, still is after all these years. I inhale deeply of the heady room and try to think about other things.

My hand is still resting on her arm.

I stare down at it as though from a long distance, as though it were another hand on another arm a million miles away from me and my existence. Sissi doesn't flinch but her own gaze is drawn to the back of the theatre. Her right hand comes to close loosely over mine. A comforting gesture, I'm sure. And yet my heart seems to leap in my throat, and I duck my head.

"I tried to summon a ghost once," Sissi comments cheerfully.

I blink hard, not sure I'm hearing her right.

"Wh-what?" My voice is slightly hoarse, my mind spinning to wrap itself around this abrupt change of subject.

She turns to face me again and the grip on my hand tightens enthusiastically at the recollection, her smoky eyes bright with nostalgia. "I was just thinking about it, just now. They say this place is haunted y'know, but I'm sure it's just Matthieu winding me up."

Sissi trails off for a moment. I wait for her to continue. Sure enough, she begins to talk again after a moment.

"I remember," she says. "It was funny. We had a séance, I tried to take Ulrich with me down there, but something… I don't remember, something scared me off in the end." Recognition dawns and she pulls a face. "Oh my god. It was Odd, wasn't it?"

I can't help grinning. "Got it in one."

Sissi's shoulders shake with unconstrained mirth and she leans into me, face pressing against my collarbone. I relax in her memories of that night; they're much more reassuring than mine.

"I was so scared."

"It was just Odd rattling some tin cans around, or something. I don't remember."

"I know, but… I'd spooked myself pretty badly up to that point. I really thought that old ghost was real."

I shiver. She notices I think, but doesn't say anything.

There's a flash, a momentary, drawn-out spell of darkness, and I hear the soft inhale beside me as Sissi gasps. It lasts for a moment until we're thrown back into light again. Sissi groans softly and mumbles something about their next play being ruined.

"The ghost of the theatre at work," I joke, and elbows me lightly in the forearm.

"This place is a bit of a dump."

"You're happy though, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

My hand has been tracing the floor panels of the stage and I realise the grooves have pattern and definition; looking closer, I see that they're deliberate carvings, names etched carefully and painstakingly into the wood. "What are these?" I ask.

"Names," she replies simply, adding "you carve your own name on here after the first play you perform in or you'll corpse on stage during your entire career." I scan the multitude of signatures, seeking out her own. "That's what they say, anyway. Silly really, but you never know with these things, do you?"

I nod in understanding. I know all about superstition – my culture is full of them, and then there's… and even as I'm thinking it my mind _shifts_ imperceptibly, and I'm back starkly in another time and place; I see the material of a black bodysuit clinging to my wrist, the glint of a razor sharp fan, and the thought unbidden in my mind,

_Three perfect handsprings and we'll all be safe-_

I blink sharply, indignantly (I'm so _tired_ of going back, you see) and I'm back in the present, faced once more with the empty audience before me, Sissi's puzzled, expectant face to my right.

It strikes me that she doesn't know or remember, more accurately) about everything that happened. The thought is strangely liberating. Here, no one else's memories can weigh me down.

In fact, hers seem to lift me up; they've brought me out of the cold, enclosed me in this room so far removed from it all. From Ulrich, from nightmares, from other people's problems that I just can't solve, and not for lack of trying.

"It was nice to see you, Sissi," I tell her honestly.

She pouts slightly; my eyes linger on her lower lip. "You're leaving?"

"No, I didn't mean that. I just…"

I heave a long sigh. I don't want to explain. I'm tired.

With one last hopeful flicker and _bzzt _the lights above the stage finally fade and we are plunged into darkness. We both groan, chuckle at the simultaneous reaction, then sit waiting until we adjust to the gloom. I can hear the shallow rise and fall of her breathing, the rustle of fabric as her shirt with its trailing hems and static-ridden sleeves clings to mine.

The dark closes in on us softly.

"It was nice of you to stop by."

"Yeah," I agree. "It's been a while." I pause before admitting, "you've grown up a lot."

I can hear the laughter in Sissi's voice; self-mocking like mine. I feel her shift beside me.

"I guess." Her voice lowers so I almost can't hear it when she adds, "I feel like I…" she changes tack, presses on with "Yumi, you were always so _together. _Friends, grades, Ulrich. I always hoped I could be like that some day. I kind of hated you for it."

My hand tightens on hers; Sissi Delmas, my old rival, my old friend. My escape from all the complications and the maddening protective measures I've invented for myself, even if she doesn't know it.

"You've done better than all of us," I tell her. "And for what it's worth… I would have gone ghost-hunting with you."

She rests her head on my shoulder. I can't see her face, but I know she's grinning.


	2. Aelita, Reunion

**Reunion**  
_Aelita_

_(impromptu tumblr!fic based on speculation for the end of Code Lyoko Evolution . Warning for character death.)_

* * *

The scanner doors slid open with a faint hiss, and in his heart he knew it was over.

A painful lump in his throat, Jérémie darted through the elevator doors before they had even fully opened, ignoring the others behind him. Those few steps from the elevator to Aelita, his sneakers skidding hopelessly on the floor as he dove to catch her, seemed to last a lifetime.

He caught a glimpse of her face as she fell; exhaustion evident in her eyes, pain etched into her face from the sudden wrenching of her conscience back to Earth. With a wordless gasp she fell, her fingers scrabbling feebly to clutch the fabric of Jérémie's shirt.

"Aelita," he said quietly, fighting to keep his voice level. "Aelita, I'm here."

She shuddered against him, her breath coming in laboured gasps, her eyelids flickering shut. He felt the damp of tears against his shirt.

"I-I'm sorry," she stammered. Immediately he hushed her, rocking her to him, uncaring of Yumi, Odd, Ulrich and William standing in a half-circle around them.

He murmured into her hair, breathing in the sweet, floral scent of it, reassuring, incoherent, tangled snatches of "no, Aelita," and "it will be okay." pressing past his lips. Jérémie's heart beat harder, hammering against his ribs as though to beat fast enough for the two of them, attuning to Aelita's own weakening pulse.

"Jérémie… I… it's over."

Her words were quiet but in the silence of the scanner room they rung clear. Their blood ran ice cold; they all knew just what she meant.

"XANA is… I needed to do it."

"Aelita, I-" Jérémie's voice cracked.

"It's over now, Jérémie. You can all… you can be safe, and happy. It can go back to how it was… before you ever met me."

His breath hitched in his throat. It was a few seconds before he could answer.

"No," he finally managed, his voice a whisper. "Aelita, don't say that. We can fix this, we can do a return to the past, we can do something-"

She cut him off weakly. "Not this time. I'm sorry, Jérémie." Here her voice wavered and her body trembled violently, shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs.

"But I need you."

She turned her head then and studied him through green eyes red-rimmed and wet with tears. "It's too late. I'm sorry."

Her eyes flickered closed once more and she drew a deep breath. She could feel Jérémie shaking her, and the others around her now, hands on shoulders, calls in her ear begging her to hold on, but slowly the world around her was becoming dimmed, blackness creeping in at the edges of her vision.

She was so tired.

Aelita forced her eyelids open, trying to see through the blur of stinging tears, trying to manage one last look of hope for her friends. How could she leave them like this, so despondent? And yet, with this last sacrifice, they would all be free.

And she would see her parents again…

The thought crossed her mind, igniting a spark of something, something like elation. _I'll see my parents again_, she thought.

The scanner room was distant now, the end beckoning her with open arms. Exhaustion numbed her through and through, casting a veil over her thoughts, enshrouding her instead in memories.

A roaring fire, a log cabin in winter… the soft harmonious sounds of a piano. Aelita strained to hold onto the memories, recalling - or imagining - sandalwood perfume, a scratchy beard and old sweater. Then the voices, of faces encroaching on the corner of her vision, the corner of these fragments of memory.

"Aelita, darling."

"Mama?" she whispered, the response only in her head. Her lips remained pressed to Jéremie's shirt, forcing out slow shallow breaths.

"We've missed you, darling", came another voice, deeper this time, flooding Aelita with a deep nostalgic longing.

"Daddy," she called out into the darkness. Then, "I've missed you both. But I'm ready now. I'm ready to come home."

On the cold scanner room floor Aelita's fingers loosened their grip on Jérémie, and her body slumped into dead weight. He wrapped his arms around her, but she no longer felt his touch, nor the voices of the others.

She floated in darkness, her tears drying as she reached out for two pairs of hands.

And, smiling, she stepped into the light.


	3. YumiSissi, Secrets

**Secrets**  
_Yumi, Sissi_

_(Set around the beginning of 'Evolution.)_

* * *

"Yumi?"

Sissi's whisper comes soft and slightly hoarse through the darkness, almost hidden in the sound of rumpling bedsheets as she shifts position. Yumi's back is to her and she stays curled like that, drowsy and warm, staring unfocused at the slanted rectangle of moonlight on her bedroom wall.

Yumi shivers slightly as a hand taps her shoulder, though the skin isn't cold. Then Sissi's voice is close enough to tickle her ear; she breathes in strawberry shampoo and hears, more persistently;

"Yumi, are you awake?"

The older girl mumbles a reply, kicking her feet out as she rolls over and, accidentally exposing the end of her body to the cold room, draws herself quickly back in with her knees to her chest. She shakes her hair out of her eyes and faces Sissi, so close that wide brown eyes fill most of her range of vision. She can see the faint freckles on the bridge of Sissi's nose and a minute blemish on the skin below her eyebrow.

"I'm awake."

"Oh."

Reluctantly Yumi peels herself away from the pillow and sits up, drawing the blankets to her chin to keep out the rush of cold air from the rest of the room. She casts her gaze into the dimness, relishing a few moments of peace before the questions start. She sees Sissi's bag and coat in the corner, the little heart-print case with her toiletries in it; a few escaped pieces of popcorn on the floor, and the empty wrapper scrunched beside a pile of movies.

"You're drifting again," says Sissi quietly. Yumi turns to see her pressed back against the pillows. Sissi picks at an imaginary spot on the blankets and says no more.

"I'm…" Yumi sighs. "I'm sorry, Sissi, things are-"

"You know you can talk to me, right? We're- we're friends now."

Yumi can't help but notice the way Sissi still stumbles over the word, afraid that admittance will stop it being true. They're still quiet, mindful not to wake Yumi's family (though Yumi thinks her mother wouldn't mind too much; they're so pleased to see Yumi with more female friends, and the kind who like sleepovers and shopping and encouraging Yumi to wear more things that aren't black) and with the rest of the world asleep, there's nowhere to hide.

"Have I done something wrong?"

As Sissi says this, she hunches her shoulders up against her ears, blocking out some anticipated truth. Yumi sinks back into the pillows and leans her head against her, so Sissi feels the shaking of Yumi's head against her shoulder, and she relaxes slightly.

Yumi draws another deep breath, releasing it slowly in a heavy exhale.

"No, Sissi."

"But you've been wandering off again." The words out in the open now, they leave her in a rush as though she's afraid that if she doesn't say them now, she never will. "You weren't at lunch yesterday, or the day before. I haven't seen anyone outside of class for a week. Ulrich, Odd, Jérémie and Aelita always rush off." She pauses a fraction, then adds so softly that Yumi can barely hear it, "I don't think they like me any more."

"That's not true."

"But… you're all keeping secrets."

Yumi examines her hands, paler than usual in the moonlight, and thinks about the source codes. She imagines them like bacteria, ugly foreign bodies swimming in her bloodstream. The very idea of them has her struggling not to panic, and her heart beats faster in her chest, skin crawling with the invasiveness of them. Worst of all perhaps, is that they're not even destroying her body, but instead chipping away at the life she's cultivated for herself.

Sissi presses against her, arm slipping around Yumi's waist in a half-hug.

"Can't you just _tell_ me, this time?" she mumbles into Yumi's shirt.

Her hands find Sissi's in the darkness and Sissi threads their fingers together, as though a crowded mall is about to separate them, or Sissi is just a little too scared by the movie Odd's forced them to watch.

How to answer, without saying more than she can allow?

A shadow flits over the moon; for a brief moment they are in darkness.


	4. Hervé, Super Nuclear

**Super Nuclear  
**_Hervé (plus Nicholas)_

_(for the drabble game on LyokoFreak.)_

* * *

He'd been privy to the Poprock Progressives' first official performance in the humble venue of Kadic's gymnasium.

It was as he watched from the shadowed doorway, as he saw Odd Della Robbia swing his hair madly as he strummed out a solo on his electric guitar, an intensity of expression on his face… and it was that then Hervé Pichon decided he was going to become a rock star.

In his and Nicholas' shared dorm room, the other boy's acoustic guitar lay propped carefully against his bed. Fully tuned (Hervé assumed though he really had no idea) and with a pick lying beside it on the floor. He remembered what he'd seen of Odd and Nicholas, the way they placed their fingers against the frets as they plucked the strings, creating effortless melody with delicate movement.

Hervé picked up the guitar and stood with it awkwardly in hand.

How hard could it be?

/

When Nicholas returned, a polystyrene cup of hot chocolate in hand, it was to an unusual sight.

Hervé, strumming tunelessly on his guitar, forehead sweaty and lank hair messy over his forehead from the impromptu dancing that accompanied his brave attempts at music. Hervé, oblivious, waved in his mind's eye to a screaming crowd, saw the tabloids that proclaimed him as - what had Belpois said? It sounded cool… oh yes that's right - the tabloids that proclaimed him as _super nuclear_, musical prodigy, a whirlwind force to be reckoned with.

Nicholas shrugged, stepped back into the hall and closed the door after him.


	5. William, Summer

**Summer  
**_William  
(Set before William enrolls at Kadic)_

* * *

She knows he's on his way of course, and only regrets she couldn't make it to the airport to meet him - it was looking to be a bad day from the start, with her knees - but she still feigns surprised when he knocks on the door and meekly sets down his suitcase on the bottom step.

William grins shyly when he sees her, greets her in English as she begins chattering away in French. He blushes when he realises his mistake, one which he pays for with a not-quite-clip around the ear (he's a little too tall now, though she makes a valiant attempt to reach).

"Silly boy! You have forgotten your French already?" she chides playfully. He ducks away - _"Je suis desole, grand-mere!" _- and the time that has passed between them melts away to the sound of laughter.

She ushers him inside. Within ten minutes has a warm mug pressed into his hand as they converse rapidly in French and English ("The short version is, I posted love letters all over the school" and "Just like your grandfather!" and they both turn automatically to the framed black and white photograph on the mantel and smile). After tea and croissants she lets William go, granting him freedom to explore the house of his youth, where he runs his hands along oak banisters and sits in squashy sofas which accommodate his weight with hearty groans; this house greets him like an old friend. He breathes in scents of pine, fabric softener and outdoors, until finally he wanders back, full-circle, to the front room and sinks to his knees beside the cabinet mounted along one wall.

Here are generations of music; the old vinyl records which he flicks through fondly, running his fingers along the worn edges of the covers, and on the shelf above a plethora of tapes and CDs. He takes one of the latter and loads up the sound system (the most modern thing in this old house he realises; maybe he'll miss a wide-screen t.v. but little else). William closes his eyes, counting the seconds as the CD loads until the house is ablaze with sound - saxophone, clarinet, trumpet, piano - which reaches across eras to comfort him and welcome him home.

From the other room, his grandmother exclaims loudly _("Bien choisis, William!") _and laughs. He waits for her to join him, revel in the music together. He scans the room for the acoustic guitar he kept here and wonders where it has gone. He hasn't felt like playing for some time but with school and disciplinary procedures and the dull world he's left behind the stuff of distant memory, inspiration floods him.

He knows this summer won't be a holiday and he foresees long days ahead; hard work and chores to do beneath his grandmother's kind yet firm gaze, carrying him through to the new school year, and a fresh start.

His parents are hoping that France will have him stagnate into something mellower, air out the mischief that rainy days in England on rough London streets have imbued in him.

Perhaps, William thinks, it will change him. But there is life to be had in this place, to be lived against a backdrop of music and nostalgia, and he hopes it's not altogether too much.


End file.
